Free Prelude by William Coles Page A

Atlantic before choking down that last breath of seawater.
    “Did you know there’s at least one Old Etonian out with the task force?” Frankie said. “Must be about 42, a year or so younger than me. I knew him very slightly when he was here. Herbert Jones was his name, though I think they just call him ‘H’ now. He’s a Lieutenant Colonel too.” He stroked the back of his hand, musing. “He stuck with it.”
    “Who’s he with?” Sap asked.
    “Two Para. Red beret and all the other trappings. Quiet chap, didn’t talk much. But God he must have been tough.” Frankie slapped his thighs and got up. He gave one final wistful shake of his head. “What a man. Well, good luck to the fellow.”
    Over the next few days, more details of the Belgrano came out. She’d been hit by two Mk 8 torpedoes, the first on the port bow and second on the stern. The ship’s power and communications systems had been knocked out and over 200 men trapped inside. The captain of the British submarine Conqueror had watched through his periscope as the Belgrano crew scrambled into the yellow life-rafts. By the time the rescue was complete, some 368 of the crew were dead.
    The British newspapers were like cockerels on a dung-heap. ‘Gotcha!’ blared The Sun . The broadsheets called it a stunning blow to the Argentinian Navy.
    But I couldn’t get the picture of the drowning sailors out of my head. None of the crew had been equipped with anti-flash protection: many had been terribly burned.
    This, I was beginning to see, was the true face of modern war. Not a glorious death in the face of the enemy, but being roasted alive after a sneak attack by an unseen foe.
    Was it really for me? What would my father think?
    THE SQUIRREL BITE on my thumb got better. I still have the scar to this day, a white fleck at the base of my knuckle. I was back at the piano within five days and practising The Well-Tempered Clavier with all the fervour of a cult fanatic.
    Divinity, English and Economics were all put on permanent hold as I devoted every spare moment to the piano. Homework was knocked out in half-an-hour, and course textbooks left untouched and unloved. And of Othello—the man whose fatal flaw I was set to so spectacularly mimic—the only times when I learned anything new were in McArdle’s English classes, during the brief moments when I could drag my attention away from Angela and her mini-skirted legs.
    To my delight, I mastered my first love, Prelude 17, in two weeks. If I attempted it now, it would take me months and months but, for that term, I would think nothing of putting in four hours at a stretch, practising a bar over and over again until my fingers had been drilled like army recruits.
    How I came to love Johann Sebastian. All day his work danced through my head. For years, I had thought his music was starchy, but after my full-body immersion into The Well- Tempered Clavier I began to appreciate his diversity.
    Looking back, it’s possible that my reaction to Bach was almost Pavlovian, that I automatically began to associate his music with my Goddess. And it is true that the moment I heard The Well-Tempered Clavier , I instinctively thought of her. But does that matter? Do you have to know the why and wherefores? Do you have to analyse cause and effect? Or can you just accept that your emotions are valid without feeling the need to analyse their origins?
    I enjoyed the practice. But it was, as I’ve said, a means to an end, and that end was my piano lessons.
    They never matched the intimacy of that second lesson, that time when our fingers had brushed against each other. But, with time, I was beginning to relax in her company; was starting, even, to revel being in her presence. Compared to that stuttering wretch of the first two weeks, I was blossoming.
    I loved to look at her, of course. I could have spent hours on end just gazing at her face.
    But she had a real knack with words, could make me laugh out loud. She had a delightful